The Hotel Heiress-The Rewrite
by MissPixieWay
Summary: She's rich, she's famous, she's every man's fantasy and every woman's dream. But Sybil Crawley, heiress to the Downton hotel fortune, wants something more, she wants freedom. But it isn't until she meets the new family chauffeur, Tom Branson, that she realises that freedom can come at a cost, one that money can't buy.
1. The Rewrite

Hello lovely's, long time no see!

As you guys will know, I completely, utterly, entirely dropped _anything_ to do with Downton Abbey, the show and fanfiction, when my beloved ship was destroyed. R.I.P Sybil Branson.

But recently, and it's taken time I can tell you, I've started to get my writing bug back.

I'm not ready to write a new fic, and as much as it hurts my heart, I still just can't bring myself to read any other writers work, but there is something I _am_ willing to do.

**Re-write my Sybil/Tom fic - The Hotel Heiress.**

I won't change anything major, I'm not about to tamper with any of the plot or create a whole new story. I just feel that there is so much potential to add detail and make my chapters more than triple the length. I also feel that I've developed as a writer since originally posting the story and would love to put different techniques into practice.

I will keep the original story posted, and will create the new fic alongside.

Anyway, enough of all that. Please read, please review and please, please, please stay wonderful!

_Miss Pixie Way xx_


	2. January1

Staring up at the large, magnificent building in front of him, Tom Branson was suddenly hit with a bout of anxiety and the notion of '_What have I gotten myself into?_'. There was no way,_ no way_ in hell that this was where he would be working. This towering, flag flying, wealth laced monster of a hotel? No, _surely_ not. He couldn't- It just wasn't his- No, this was not a place for a poor Irish bloke such as himself.

Combing a fingerless gloved hand across his head, numb fingertips tearing away his hat, Tom took a few more moments twiddling the wool in his cold palms as he surveyed the Downton Hotel. Yep, the _world_ famous, celebrity ridden, Downton Hotel; the large, shimmering gold letters above the billowing blue awning were enough to confirm that, and still he could barely believe that this was his new workplace. Sure he'd worked in many a place during his twenty seven years, even his last job had been a hotel, but nothing, nothing matched up to this. This was real money, real power, everything he wasn't. He was half tempted to run back to the station, get on the tube and then swim the sea back home to Ireland.

But no, instead he sucked up all his fears and decided to go for it. He already had the job didn't he? And he could hardly be fired for not wearing a tailored suit, right? _Right_? And either way he needed money like it was going out of fashion. He'd already been evicted twice since moving to London, had already burned through most of his savings, his only worldly possessions fit into the battered case at his side, and he was literally on the brink of returning home shamefaced to a fussing mother and told you so father. What did he have to lose?

"Fuck." His curse hit the ice cold air as a plume of grey, and as quickly as it vanished, was as quick as Tom walked into it.

Tucking his hat beneath his jacket, clumsily tearing off his gloves, grabbing his rickety case, he jogged half heartedly across the busy London street, noticing as he did so that the car that nearly hit him was worth over £50,000 and that the bloke driving was wearing a uniform. _God he hoped he didn't have to wear a uniform_.

Only when he reached the bottom of the purple carpet covering white marble stairs did Tom wonder whether he was even allowed in the front doors. He glanced down at his ruffled attire, a worn suit from his university interview, and reasoned he probably wasn't. His heart sank a little as he looked around and noticed men in designer suits and beautiful women gliding in expensive heels in and out of the main ornate, golden doorway. They were the sort that were welcome in this hotel, in fact, for all he knew the bloke gliding down the steps in his Hugo Boss tuxedo could be the bloody cleaner.

But then he took a closer look, a _much_ closer look, and he realised something. Those beautiful women were pumped with botox, skin stretched and pinched, and those that were naturally young were slung around men fifty years their senior. And the men swathed in Italian, were red eyed and hazy, dragging along women who's lack of wedding band bought query to his own. Alright, he may be just a lost boy from Ireland, but it didn't mean he meant less to the world than anyone else. He was a decent bloke, had never done any _real_ harm, and was probably a damn sight more decent than anyone flashing their cash to get into this place. So, once again taking a deep breath, he raced up the stairs and up to the doorway.

Here, a young blonde doorman in a fine black uniform reached out to open the door for him. Fucking hell, why wasn't this going to be straight forward? "Welcome to The Downton Hotel, Sir."

Feeling most embarrassed at having had a door held open for him and being mistaken for someone who could even afford a brick of this building, Tom turned to the doorman checking his name badge as he did so. "Thank you...William?"

The doorman seemed surprised at being addressed so, but gave a polite nod of the head and closed the door behind him. The noise cut out by the huge door was instant. It was as though a huge vacuum had plugged him in. No longer did the sounds of roaring cars and the hum of London streets consume Tom. Those rough, city noises were now replaced by the wonderful notes of an old gramophone in the far corner of the hotel entrance hall.

Staring around Tom felt more out of his depth than ever. The entire hall must have cost more money than had ever passed his hands in a lifetime. Long velvet curtains looped beside huge, twinkling windows. Women in gowns and dark houses and faces graced the art on the walls. Tom couldn't even begin to imagine the value of those. Rich, colourful, patterned carpet spread across the floor, neatly meeting each curve and corner. The spindly furniture and plush sofas seemed cry _"I'm an antique, touch me and I'll shatter!"_. An expert would probably agree that there was a distinct Edwardian feel to the place.

The Irishman gave a grunt laugh as he surveyed the uniformed staff buzzing around guests that seemed to glow. "Upper class Edwardian that is..."

"Mr. Branson, I assume?"

The deep voice caught him by surprise, and he was edging two feet away from it without even realising. "Holy fu-"

"Excuse me?"_ Brilliant way to start an introduction Tom._

He spun round quickly and came face to face with a rather aged man in a pristine black suit, crisp white shirt and a silk purple tie. It was clear at once this was a man who commanded authority and when Tom chanced a glance, he saw his name badge twinkled with the title Mr. Carson, Hotel Manager. "Yes, it is."

Tom couldn't help notice how Mr. Carson gave him the once over, and knew at once how the manager had picked him out as staff amongst the guests. With a tug as fierce as the wind, the urge to run back across the street had never been so strong. "You're late."

Feeling most embarrassed at checking his ropey, market stall watch in front of such a clearly proud man, Tom offered his apology. "Sorry, I- I wasn't sure I was at the right place."

The look Mr. Carson offered in return had Tom wanting the floor to swallow him whole. "Indeed, I can imagine it must be difficult to find the one and only Downton Hotel amongst all the other non-existent Downton Hotels. Now, leave your ahh-" Tom gave a quick brush to his brown case. "-leave your luggage to the staff and please follow me."

_Follow me_. Easy enough command. So why did his feet feel so heavy? His body so clumsy? His arms so limp? Were his steps making more noise than everyone else's Were people looking at him? Probably wondering who let the tramp in. God, was his hair a mess? He ruffled a fumblinghand into the thick brown. He must look fine, really, he was overreacting, right?

Before long his torturous walk was at end in the form of a beautiful golden lift across the far wall of the lobby. Tom noticed that instead of asking one of the uniformed lift attendants to push a floor number, Mr. Carson pressed a card to a shining metal square under the figures.

Noticing his curious look Mr. Carson spoke, "Please enter the lift and I shall explain to you how things run around here. It's quite a way to the top so we should have - Thomas! I assume you are heading straight for the dining room and not dilly dallying around my lobby! - plenty of time."

Tom glanced around at the black haired man Mr. Carson had yelled at, who gave him a sour look and stormed off, then walked into the golden lift, complete with a leather sofa and water cooler and waited for Mr. Carson to join him. After another shout at another startled employee, the manager swept into the cavernous space, and with a soft swoop, the journey to the penthouse began.

"Now, I assume you are here as the new chauffeur?" Without waiting for a reply he continued. "In your chauffeur role you will not be working for the hotel, our roles for guest chauffeurs are already full, and most bring their own anyway. No, no, you'll be working for the Crawley family themselves. I assume you know all about the Crawley family however I will remind you just the same. The Crawley forefathers have been in possession of this 5 star hotel for over 100 years. Currently the hotel is owned by Lord Robert Crawley, world renowned business man and his wife, ex-Hollywood actress Cora Crawley. They also have three daughters, Miss Mary, Miss Edith and Miss Sybil." Tom's vehement nodding came to a halt then, for Carson's swift speech had come to a hesitant stand still. His voice was almost accusingly quiet when he spoke again. "Although I'm sure you know _all_ about the Crawley sisters?"

Know about them? Who didn't? "Yes, I know about them."

The Crawley sisters. Where did you begin with the Crawley sisters? Born into fame, they were the three most famous socialites in London. Their hotel heiress status meant they were often spread over every paper and magazine that any celebrity follower could get their hands on. The press always seemed to have some story on them. Even a change of outfit could make a side story on the news. Yes, for the fame hungry, the Crawley sisters were the epitome of the celebrity title. And although Tom wasn't bothered about celebrity's in any way, especially three young airheads with nothing but money and good looks on their side, his younger sister was a follower of the stars and had told him a fair bit about the Crawley sisters...

Mary, the eldest if he remembered rightly, was often modelling for one magazine or another and though she wasn't known for being the nicest woman in the world, as far as fashion was concerned she was the leader of all the latest trends. He wasn't certain, but he was sure she had been voted the most eligible single woman in England just a few days ago. Though thinking of it, he could recall his sister mentioning that her on/off relationship with celebrity lawyer Matthew Krawleigh was often slapped all over the headlines. Cold, uptight and difficult was Tom's final conclusion after that summary.

Edith, what had his sister said about Edith? Ah yeah, she was more famous for her bad luck in love. His sister had said that there was always some scandal going on about which bloke she was sleeping with this week. Come to think of it, should his sister be reading these stories? Anyway, there was always some speculation whether all her past loves had been after her sisters, or the notoriety of attaching themselves to a Crawley. Relationships she had never lasted more than a month either way. Tom was pretty sure she was also known for being quite bitchy; always allowing personal spats with her sisters to leak into the the tabloids. Charming girl.

Sybil, ah yes, Sybil, young and reckless and no less followed. Photos of her out in clubs being a rebel, partying till late and stumbling out of clubs always made a page in all the magazines. Tom could hardly fault anyone for having a laugh, but he would bet his life her laughs included taking this and that, doing this bloke and his brother, and getting away with it all because of her title. Na, that really didn't sit too well with him. And he was certain his sister had mentioned her lively spirit and honesty to critics had often left her in hot water with the public. What an absolute fucking _nightmare_ she must be.

It took a moment for Tom to realise Carson was still talking, and that his belly had just given a slight swoop. "Now the Crawley's are currently having a house built in Yorkshire, so for the time being Lord Crawley and his wife are residing in the penthouse whilst his daughters have a room each on the lower floor. These cards-" He flashed the silver card he had pressed on the pad to Tom "-will allow you to travel to the top floors without interruption should Lord Crawley call for you."

As the doors to the lift opened Mr. Carson walked ahead of Tom and knocked on the penthouse door. And just like that, that urge to run returned. But this time it didn't consume him with feelings of nerves and jitters. He did not feel scared or worried. Fuck, he didn't even feel inadequate any more, he would do a bloody good job, would prove himself. No, that tug, the pull he could feel now, was almost foreboding. He couldn't explain it, but with every step across to the door he could feel it building, tightening in his gut. Something was going to happen here, something big. Something was going to change, and it was going to be sudden. His head was telling him to back out now, but his heart begged that he go foward.

With a shiver down his spine, Tom stepped forward to meet his new employer.


End file.
